Renea Winchester
One sweltering July day my brother and I were riding in the back of a covered wagon with our small children.
Can you believe that . . . a covered wagon?
For a couple bucks visitors could ride the wagon into town. At the time, my hometown of Bryson City was morphing into the tourist town it is today. At the edge of town I noticed eight trailers parked end-to-end with only a sliver of dirt where children played outside. Dogs lived under the trailers, protecting their owner’s meager possessions. Broken-down cars-in various stages of repair- rested on blocks, their open hoods waiting.
Then I saw movement in one of the trailers and noticed a freckled face pressed against the window glass. From that moment she was my Carole Anne, fiercely determined to leave the trailer park by any means necessary.
“There’s your book,” my brother said while pointing to the trailer park. “You need to write about Bryson City, about the town we grew up in, not this tourist trap.”
He was right.
The Bryson City I grew up in was once a thriving textile town where employees worked hard to earn their "polyester payday."
Looking into the eyes of this young girl I knew I would one day tell her story. I would tell people that she mattered.
Today the trailers are gone, as is the small-town life I once enjoyed. However, if you look close you just might spot your own Carole Anne.
Can you believe that . . . a covered wagon?
For a couple bucks visitors could ride the wagon into town. At the time, my hometown of Bryson City was morphing into the tourist town it is today. At the edge of town I noticed eight trailers parked end-to-end with only a sliver of dirt where children played outside. Dogs lived under the trailers, protecting their owner’s meager possessions. Broken-down cars-in various stages of repair- rested on blocks, their open hoods waiting.
Then I saw movement in one of the trailers and noticed a freckled face pressed against the window glass. From that moment she was my Carole Anne, fiercely determined to leave the trailer park by any means necessary.
“There’s your book,” my brother said while pointing to the trailer park. “You need to write about Bryson City, about the town we grew up in, not this tourist trap.”
He was right.
The Bryson City I grew up in was once a thriving textile town where employees worked hard to earn their "polyester payday."
Looking into the eyes of this young girl I knew I would one day tell her story. I would tell people that she mattered.
Today the trailers are gone, as is the small-town life I once enjoyed. However, if you look close you just might spot your own Carole Anne.
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